


I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus

by gemjam



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, Mall Santa Claus, Single Parent Peter Hale, Young Malia, selective mute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 23:44:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17089985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemjam/pseuds/gemjam
Summary: Peter hopes that taking five-year-old Malia to see Santa might break her silence. Instead he finds someone who accepts her, and Peter, just the way they are.





	I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thingwithfeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingwithfeathers/gifts).



> Secret Santa fic for _thingwithfeathers/feathersareathing_. This idea is a little out there but I think it hits your wants and I'm really hoping that it's up your street and you enjoy it. Merry Christmas!

They’ve been in line for nearly an hour now, winding around oversized candy canes while Christmas muzak plays around them. They’re only just getting close to the actual grotto and Peter watches Malia as her eyes dart around the busy mall, taking it all in. She’s so attentive to everything going on around her, so in tune with her surroundings. Nothing ever gets past her.

Peter brings her to things like this as often as he can, wanting to fill her life with experiences. He hopes that he might suddenly stumble across that magical catalyst that will bring her out of her shell. None of it has worked though and he’s starting to worry that he’s just spoiling her. But Christmas is her favourite time of year and she’s been so excited about meeting Santa all week. If anything’s going to break through, Peter’s certain it will be this.

They’re ushered through a magical curtained doorway by an elf and suddenly they’re in a winter wonderland, the busy mall feeling like another dimension. There’s a pathway leading through fluffy fake snow, woodland animals nestled amongst fake trees. The roof is swathed with dark material and covered in twinkly little lights. It feels like they’re in an enchanted forest. If there’s one thing that Malia loves more than Christmas, it’s nature. Peter watches her, a look of total awe on her little face, eyes lighting up with excitement. It makes his heart swell.

As the approach the front of the line, Santa sitting in his carved wooden chair chatting to a little boy in front of them, Peter leans down to Malia.

“Go say hello to Santa, okay?” he implores.

Malia nods, eyes fixed on the man in the red suit. As soon as the boy is out of the way, she lets go of Peter’s hand and strides towards Santa, climbing into his lap. Despite everything, she’s never been shy. That was the first thing Peter ruled out.

“Merry Christmas!” Santa booms enthusiastically. “And what’s your name, little girl?”

Peter holds his breath. Malia stares mutely at Santa, blinking her big eyes. Peter’s hands curl into fists. He knows he can’t be upset with her, she never did anything to raise his expectations, that’s on him. As usual, she never said a word. He just wanted one moment of normalcy, one tiny memory that’s not tainted by regret. Is that really too much to ask?

When the silence stretches on, Santa turns to look at Peter who sags, humiliated and hating himself for it.

“I’m sorry,” Peter says, his voice cracking. “She doesn’t really talk.”

“Does she sign?” Santa asks, not missing a beat.

Peter’s mouth falls open and he nods his head. “Yeah.”

“I might be a little rusty, but…” He turns back to Malia, rebalancing her on his lap so that he can use both hands. _Merry Christmas. What’s your name?_

Malia’s eyes light up. She can talk to Santa without having to open her mouth. Peter was hoping that the situation and her own excitement might break through the self-imposed barrier she hides behind, but seeing her included, seeing the kindness of this stranger, it makes a lump form in his throat. All he ever wants is for her to be understood and accepted.

He watches as Malia painstakingly spells out the letters of her name, wanting to make sure her Christmas wishes don’t go to anyone else. She tells Santa that she wants a dog and a new bike and some boots for stomping in mud. Peter’s not sure how much of it Santa’s still understanding but he nods and encourages her. When she asks about his reindeer, Santa tells her they’re doing well and to remember to leave out a carrot for them because they get hungry on Christmas night. Peter’s pretty sure they’re going to end up putting a whole bag out.

When her time is up, Malia throws herself forward and gives Santa a hug. She’s rarely affectionate outside of family, who she climbs on like they’re furniture, and Peter feels like he’s about to start crying in the middle of a goddamn grotto. Malia hops off Santa’s lap and runs to Peter, giving him a hug too. Peter scoops her up, settling her on his hip and holding her close.

 _Santa’s nice,_ she signs.

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, wondering how he’s going to explain it when the next Santa they meet doesn’t know how to sign.

As he steps away, he turns back to thank the guy in the Santa suit, but the next kid is already climbing up into his lap. It feels like a missed opportunity as he walks away. Malia starts signing at him to ask if they can stop at the pet store to pet the bunnies and Peter, as always, is helpless to resist her.

As they drive home later, all of Malia’s whims met and Christmas songs playing on the car stereo, Peter feels regret settling in gut. He should have thanked the Santa. He spends most of his life feeling like Malia’s translator, everyone looking at her with pity and impatience. It’s lonely, being on his own with this burden, even though he hates himself for thinking it. But if it’s like that for him, it must be utterly isolating for Malia. She could just open her mouth and speak though. He’s powerless in all this. Sometimes he worries that’s how she feels too. He can never quite tell if she controls it or if it controls her.

And then there’s this mall Santa who accepted her exactly as she is and never treated her silence as a limitation. He gave her the same attention as every other child, but to Malia it must have felt like so much more because there was none of the usual distance that comes with lack of communication.

Peter feels himself filling up again. All he wants for her is a normal childhood. He comes across so few people who can give her one. The thought of letting this tiny act of kindness go unthanked in unthinkable when it’s the most meaningful thing that’s happened to Peter in a long time.

“Hey,” he says to Malia, glancing at her in the rear-view mirror. “Do you want to go visit Uncle Derek?”

She signs an emphatic _yes_. Peter knows all the best bribes. That’s half of parenting right there. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, passing it back to her.

“Text and ask him.”

Derek can never say no to her, so Peter adjusts his route accordingly.

When he opens the door, Derek is all smiles, allowing Malia to wrap herself around his waist and squeeze undoubtedly too tight before she’s skipping off past him to find his long-suffering cat. Luckily, it’s as patient as Derek is.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Derek asks as Peter steps inside.

“I have a Santa related errand to run,” Peter says, watching Malia across the room.

“‘Tis the season,” Derek responds dryly, knowing exactly where this is heading.

“Do you mind?” Peter asks.

“Well, I mean, I _was_ planning on making Christmas cookies tonight,” Derek says loudly, turning around and walking across the living room. “I don’t suppose there’s anybody that might want to help me out with that?”

Malia’s eyes light up, licking her lips as she thrusts her hand up into the air.

Peter pats Derek on the shoulder. “You could have just put a DVD on. Don’t bitch at me when your kitchen’s destroyed.”

“But then I wouldn’t be the greatest uncle in the world,” Derek responds.

Peter says goodbye to Malia with a hug and a kiss, certain that she won’t miss him.

The grotto closes at six and he gets there ten minutes after. He hopes it’s not too late. This is probably a fool’s errand anyway, he doesn’t want it to be all for nothing. He stands around outside for a few minutes until a woman steps out.

“Excuse me,” he says, cringing before the words are even out of his mouth. “I’m looking for Santa.”

She stares at him for a moment. “I’m sorry, the grotto’s closed.”

“I know,” Peter says. “I was here earlier with my daughter and I was hoping to talk to the man who plays Santa.”

“Do you have a complaint, sir?” she asks warily, like she’s clocked out and her holiday cheer has been shelved until the next day.

“No, not at all,” Peter assures her. “I wanted to thank him. My daughter… has some difficulties. He was incredibly kind to her.”

She nods in understanding, softening. “What time were you here?”

Right. They probably have more than one Santa. “It was around 3 o’clock.”

“That was Stiles,” she says. “He just finished, I’ll see if he’s still around.”

“Thank you so much,” Peter enthuses.

He’s pretty sure _I’ll see if he’s still around_ is code for _I’ll see if he feels like meeting a possible stalker right now or would prefer to hide inside the grotto until you’re gone_ , but Peter will take it.

The mall Christmas muzak is still playing but it sounds utterly soulless with the grotto shut down for the night, all the twinkly lights turned off. Retail during the holidays must be hell.

Someone comes out of the grotto and Peter turns, faced with a young guy, college aged, hair messy and cheeks flushed from being bundled up in that costume for who knows how long. His eyes though, they’re the kind eyes that silently questioned Peter about Malia’s silence, and that lit up when he had the perfection solution.

He says goodbye to the other girl, finally on her way home, and then turns to Peter with a grin. “Malia’s dad, right? I’m Stiles.” He sticks his hand out to shake.

“Peter,” he responds, helplessly charmed that he remembers Malia’s name, for her sake as much as his own. He guesses she stands out though. That’s why he’s here.

As they shake hands, Stiles’ grip is warm and firm but there’s no hint of aggression. It’s not business like, but the greeting you would give an old friend.

“Where’s Malia?” Stiles asks.

“I left her with my nephew,” Peter says. “And I’m sorry to bother you, I’m sure you want to go home, I just wanted to express my gratitude that you were able to talk to Malia like that. It meant the world to her. And me.”

“It’s no big deal,” Stiles dismisses. “I’m glad she enjoyed it.”

“It is a big deal,” Peter says. “She gets isolated and I hate it, so for her to be included was a very big deal. Thank you.”

Stiles gives him a genuine smile, he’s eyes soft and warm. “You’re welcome.”

The straightforward sincerity of the moment makes some wall that Peter always holds firm inside him come tumbling down. “There’s nothing wrong with her, by the way,” he says. “I’ve taken her to every specialist, I’ve had her screened for developmental delays, I’ve had every scan and test, and no one can tell me why she won’t talk. She _can_. She can speak in beautiful, eloquent sentences when she wants to, she’s got the vocabulary. There’s no medical or cognitive reason behind it. She just doesn’t want to, and I can’t figure out why.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about her,” Stiles says easily. “She’s a happy, confident girl.”

The words are a double-edged sword. It’s always heartening to hear somebody appreciating Malia’s worth, despite the way she presents herself, but it also feels like his valid concerns about her are being dismissed. That’s how it’s always ended with every medical professional and therapist he’s taken her to see. He doesn’t want to be validated to the extent of developing Munchausen’s by proxy, but sometimes he wishes someone would share his worries with him, just for a minute. There are times when it gets too heavy and he just needs to vent, but he feels like the most awful person in the world about it, especially when nobody agrees with him.

“Hey,” Stiles says, catching his attention.

Peter notices the way his eyes flick down to Peter’s bare ring finger, can imagine the calculation in his mind that Peter has left Malia with his nephew, not his partner.

“There’s this place upstairs that does the most amazing hot chocolate,” Stiles says. “Do you want to get some? If you have time.”

“I don’t want to keep you,” Peter says, even though he does, he really does, and he feels so selfish for it.

“I was definitely going to get some anyway,” Stiles says. “You heard the part where it’s amazing, right? It’s always better with company.”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees. He rarely gets to spend time with adults who aren’t family or parents of Malia’s friends. If someone like Stiles wants to spend time with him, he’s not going to pass up the opportunity. “I’d love to.”

Stiles smiles at him, giving a little bounce on his feet. “Follow me.”

Stiles orders for them, but Peter insists on paying. Stiles gives only the most cursory attempt to refuse. They settle at a small table, looking at each other over the sugar packets, and Peter tries to dismiss the idea that it feels intimate. Stiles did check for a ring though.

“So how did you learn sign language?” Peter asks.

“I used to use it with my mom,” Stiles says, picking up one of the sugar packets and playing with it. “The doctors _did_ know what was wrong with her, but it didn’t help much. Frontotemporal dementia. She lost a lot of her language and comprehension. That’s one of the things that gets hit hard. I was a kid who liked to research things to make them less scary and I read something about visual language helping when their verbal skills deteriorate and it was better than sitting around doing nothing. So I taught myself sign language and then I taught it to her and sometimes she’d use it. I don’t think it was a total waste. It gave us a productive way to spend time together if nothing else.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter says. “That must have been incredibly difficult.”

“We’re a family who makes the most of it,” Stiles says with a smile, and Peter can tell that he means it.

Their hot chocolates arrive, stuffed with marshmallows, a candy cane placed inside. They do look amazing. Peter stirs his candy cane through it, watching the marshmallows melt, before he lifts it to his lips for a sip. It’s sweet and rich with minty goodness laced through it. He hums appreciatively.

“It only gets better as the candy cane melts,” Stiles says, something almost mischievous twinkling in his eye.

“Thanks for the recommendation,” Peter says.

“I’m full of excellent ideas,” Stiles says. He takes another sip and places his mug down. “So, you’re getting Malia a dog for Christmas, right? Because she really wants that dog.”

Peter rolls his eyes, even as his lips curl into a smile. “Yes, she’s getting a dog. I’m picking it up on Christmas Eve for her.”

“Best dad ever,” Stiles says. “You’ll be her hero.”

“She loves animals,” Peter says. “I put off the idea of a dog because I wanted her to have friends that would talk to her, that she would have to talk back to. I was worried a dog might just make her even more feral.” He drops his head into his hand. “Shit, that is an awful thing to say. I don’t mean that.”

“Hot chocolate is a judgement free zone,” Stiles tells him easily.

Peter lifts his head, looking up at him. “I promise I’m not a bad person.”

“I don’t think you’re a bad person,” Stiles says.

“I just called my daughter feral,” Peter says with a sardonic look.

Stiles tilts his head, pursing his lips in consideration. “I’d say you called her semi-feral at worst.”

Peter laughs despite himself and it feels so good to let some of the tension out. He hates having critical thoughts about Malia, it’s his number one cause of guilt, or maybe number two behind the fact that she won’t talk in the first place. Children talk. Humans talk. Where did he go so wrong with her?

“She used to babble when she was a baby,” he says, stirring the marshmallow froth into his hot chocolate. “She was loud and she’d giggle. Her first word was Dada. There was always noise in our house. It feels so silent now.” He takes a sip of his drink, the flavours melding together on his tongue. It soothes something inside him. “She used to name things and she started putting words together. And then… I don’t know what happened. She’d go days without making a sound. I thought maybe it was autism, but she communicated just fine, and it was meaningful communication, she just didn’t speak. I thought she couldn’t but then sometimes she’d spontaneously put together full sentences like it was no big deal. She still does. I have no idea what the key is. I’ve never been able to figure it out. I can’t find the key to my own goddamn daughter.”

“It must be frustrating,” Stiles says, his tone even and kind.

“I just feel like I’m failing her,” Peter says. “Selective mutism is classified as an anxiety disorder. And if there’s nothing else, if there’s no other cause, that must be it. But she doesn’t seem anxious. I know that’s not the point, it’s not like she’s going to wear it like a neon sign, but I’ve sat down and talked to her about it and she always insists that she’s fine. One time she even said it out loud. She said ‘Dad, I’m not scared to talk’ and I just wanted to shake her and ask her what the fuck was wrong then.”

“Did you teach her to sign?” Stiles asks.

Peter looks up at him. “Yeah. I took a class about a year ago. It’s like with the dog, I put it off because I thought it might discourage her from actually talking, but the older she gets, the more she needs words. She can write now, so she passes notes to her friends, and they’ve picked up some signs too. I take her into school in the morning and they all sign good morning to her and I want to cry every goddamn day.”

“You’re a good dad,” Stiles says.

“I don’t feel like a very good dad,” Peter says. “I can’t help her.”

“You are helping her,” Stiles says. “You gave her words. That’s so powerful. I think you’re doing a great job. She’s a good kid.”

Peter smiles, feeling himself fill up again. This is why he came back, he remembers. This is why he had to say thank you. Stiles understands on some deep level that Peter experiences so rarely. A place without pity or judgement.

“I’m so glad you were Santa today when we went in there,” he says.

Stiles gives him a warm smile. “Me too.”

“You make an excellent Santa,” Peter tells him.

“Thanks,” Stiles says. “This is the fourth year I’ve worked at the grotto, but I’ve always been an elf before. This is my first year promoted to Santa.”

“It must be a rewarding job,” Peter says. “I mean, I don’t personally want to be around that many kids that aren’t my own. Malia’s kind of the exception to the rule for me.”

“She seems like a cool kid,” Stiles says.

“It must be so nice to see the joy and wonder on their faces though,” Peter says.

“We get a lot of tantrums too,” Stiles says. “Kids who’ve been waiting in line for over an hour and they’re bored and hungry and they’ve just had enough. But yeah, being Santa, I tend to get the smiles, even if they’re teary. It’s not a bad way to earn extra cash over Christmas.”

He stirs his hot chocolate and then lifts his candy cane up to his mouth, closing his lips around it and sucking the liquid off. It’s more than a little mesmerising. He pulls it out with a deliberately slow motion.

“So, when we’re done here, do you want to go check out the grotto?” Stiles asks. “I have a key. Santa perks.”

“I saw it earlier,” Peter says. “It’s impressive. The nicest one I’ve seen.”

“But you saw it full of a bunch of kids,” Stiles says. “It feels different after hours. Sometimes we stay behind after we close and… don’t smoke pot.”

Peter snorts a laugh. “Were you doing that tonight?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Not tonight.” He puts his candy cane back in his drink, stirring it around. “Did you want to check it out?”

“Yeah, sure,” Peter agrees. “I’d like that.”

The slow pace, lingering over their drinks to stretch out their time together, falls by the wayside with the anticipation of something more. Peter doesn’t think with this part of his brain very often. Well, he thinks with it plenty, but not with other people involved. Malia’s his main priority. She’s getting older though. He’s allowed something for himself.

Stiles has a key to the back door of the grotto and he leads Peter through a room with costumes hung up and into the main grotto where they were earlier in the day. It’s pitch blackness until Stiles flicks a switch and the ceiling comes alive with twinkling lights. Peter stares up at it like he’d watched Malia do earlier that day.

“It’s gorgeous, right?” Stiles says, stepping off the path and into the fake snow. He lies down, stuffed deer above him, looking over at Peter as he pats the space beside him. “I know all the best spots.”

Peter goes over to him, lying down on the cotton wool like material that makes up the landscape. It’s soft and there’s a delicious give beneath Peter that makes him feel so cosy. He looks up at the lights that adorn the ceiling, feeling the magic of it tickle at his skin.

“I love stars,” Stiles says. “My dad knows all the constellations. When I was little we used to take a blanket out into the backyard and he’d point them all out to me.”

“That’s the kind of childhood memories I want to make for Malia,” Peter says.

“I’m sure you are,” Stiles says.

“Do you still remember them?” Peter asks. “The constellations?” He imagines lying beneath the stars, Stiles’ voice tickling his ear as they speak in hushed voices, trying not to disturb the universe.

“Not really,” Stiles says. “I know some of the basics. I kind of just like the beauty, to be honest. I’m the guy who always has to know everything, but sometimes it’s good to have a little wonder.”

“A little magic,” Peter says. “Like what you do here.”

He turns his head to the side, looking at the moles along the side of Stiles’ face. They’re like constellations of their own. Peter wants to name them. He wants to claim them. He licks his lips.

“The magic comes from the kids,” Stiles says. “I’m just here to unlock it.”

He lets his head fall to the side, meeting Peter’s eyes. The lights twinkle within them and Peter isn’t so sure he’s not filled with magic. Stiles’ eyes flick down to his lips and then back up again.

“Are you single?”

“For five years,” Peter responds.

Stiles gives a low whistle. “That’s a lot.”

“It’s a lot,” Peter agrees. “And you’re…”

“Going to kiss you now,” Stiles says. “If you don’t stop me.”

“I’m not going to stop you,” Peter says, already leaning in.

Their lips meet, a firm press, a steady promise. Peter’s heart beats faster in his chest, reaching up a hand to skim over Stiles’ cheek before he cradles his face, tugging him closer. Stiles opens his mouth with clear intent and it’s been so long since Peter’s done this, but he knows how it goes. He fits his mouth to Stiles’, feeling the heat roll through him, sucking on Stiles’ upper lip. Stiles makes a little noise, hands grabbing at Peter’s jacket, pulling him on top of him. His body is so hard and warm and real beneath Peter’s. He doesn’t hug anyone but Malia anymore. This is in a different stratosphere to that.

Peter joins their mouths again, edging his tongue forward, Stiles meeting him halfway. Peter groans as their tongues slide together, letting Stiles lick into his mouth, everything tasting of sweetness and mint. He runs a hand through Stiles’ hair, presses his hips down without really meaning to, but Stiles surges up against him, pushing his jacket back from his shoulders.

Peter shifts, taking it off, happily pulled back down to Stiles’ mouth by needy hands. His own fingertips find their way beneath Stiles’ hem, tracing hot flesh, feeling it move beneath his touch. It’s been so long, he can live without it, he has, but this is something else. This isn’t just pent up sexual tension and touch starvation. He feels something for Stiles. He likes his heart. He’s in so fucking deep.

Stiles bends his leg, the thigh that’s between both of Peter’s lifting up and pressing firmly against Peter’s groin. It sends a jolt of need through him, concentrated mainly in his cock, and he thrusts down against him before he pulls back, looking down at Stiles. His eyes are glassy, his cheeks flushed, his head pillowed against the soft fake snow. It’s one of the most beautiful things Peter’s ever seen.

“You okay?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah,” Peter says. “I just… I was thinking that maybe I could take you to dinner before I fucked you in a grotto.”

A grin comes over Stiles’ face. “You can definitely do both. They’re not mutually exclusive.”

Peter laughs, rolling off Stiles and lying on his back. It feels so good, like a weight lifted. Not everything has to be a burden. He’s allowed to just have fun.

Stiles moves onto his side, resting his head on his hand as he looks down at him. “You have a great laugh.”

Peter looks over at him. “Can I take you to dinner?”

“Sure,” Stiles says, smiling at him softly.

“I don’t know when,” Peter says. “I need to find a babysitter.”

Stiles shrugs. “Just let me know. I’m very flexible.” He leans down, brushing his lips against Peter’s before pulling back and playing his fingers through Peter’s hair. He considers him for a moment. “Can I give you a blowjob. I think you’d really like it. I’d really like it.”

Peter feels his cheeks blaze. “I’d definitely like it,” he says somewhat reluctantly, because he should go. He’s been gone so long already. He doubts Malia and Derek are missing him though, and when was the last time a beautiful boy made an offer like this to him? “Okay,” he breathes out.

Stiles bites down on his lip as his eyes light up. He moves down Peter’s body without preamble, climbing between his legs and unbuckling his belt. Peter lifts his head to watch as Stiles pops the button open, drawing down the zipper. There’s nothing slow or drawn out about it, but it’s still the most romantic thing that’s happened to Peter for as long as he can remember. On the surface, this might be seedy and questionable, but Peter knows it goes so much deeper than that. It’s the start of a good thing. He’s not going to let any other thought inside his brain. Besides, he really fucking needs this, and he’s allowed to be selfish for a minute and take it.

Stiles yanks down his trousers and underwear in one go, freeing his half-hard cock. The fake snow is so ridiculously soft beneath his bare ass and it feels like being laid out on a cloud. Stiles’ hand closes around his cock, giving a squeeze that’s somehow reassuring. Peter lifts his eyes to find Stiles looking at him, soft eyes full of affection. It makes something clench in Peter’s chest. It makes his cock give a throb.

Stiles strokes him, coaxing him into full hardness, Peter feeling his body go warm and liquid. He lets his head fall back but keeps his eyes on Stiles, on the hand that moves over his cock, on those soft eyes that keep flicking up to meet his own. There’s such a deep connection and Peter starts thinking some painfully cliched thoughts like this is meant to be. He blames the fact that all the blood in his body is currently heading to his dick with urgency.

When he’s almost fully hard, Stiles dips down and takes Peter into his mouth, finishing off the job with lips and tongue. It feels divine. Peter gives up on trying to follow it, trying to be present, and he just lets his eyes fall closed, every ounce of attention on his cock and that talented mouth and how it sends waves of pleasure through his body.

Everything is hot, sweat sticking his shirt to him as he arches his back. He moans, Stiles’ hands sliding over his hips, not holding him down, fingertips splaying out to claim. Peter reaches down, touching his hand, gripping his wrist, lifting his head up to find eyes looking back at him over lips stretched around his cock and he nearly comes from the sight alone. He whines, fingers going to Stiles’ hair, wanting to be close to him, wanting to feel him bobbling up and down. He has no desire to try and take control. He always has to be in control. It feels so good to have someone else take it from him, to be able to just let go and be taken care of.

His other hand grabs a handful of the fake snow beneath him as Stiles hollows out his cheeks and sucks hard. Peter lets his head fall back, staring up at the twinkling lights, feeling like he’s being lifted up to float amongst them. His fingers scramble for purchase in Stiles’ hair, the strands tickling his palm, and then he’s coming, hips stuttering upwards as all his focus tightens to a single point of wonderfulness, shuddering helplessly as Stiles swallows it all down.

He holds Peter in his mouth for a few moments, suckling gently, cleaning him up before he pulls away. Peter’s soft cock falls wetly onto his stomach, his eyes fluttering closed. He breathes, his chest rising and falling with each measured inhale, an aftershock making him shiver. Stiles starts to pull his pants up and Peter lifts his hips, eyes still closed, charmed by the fact that he’s being dressed. Maybe it’s the endorphins, but it all feels very romantic.

When he finally opens his eyes again, Stiles is laid beside him, watching him with such affection on his face. Peter smiles at him, lifting his hand halfway towards him, but everything feels heavy and he lets it fall back down again. Stiles reaches out, placing his own hand on top of Peter’s.

“Thanks,” Peter says.

“Uh-huh,” Stiles responds, looking amused.

Peter probably looks a mess and he feels incredibly stupid, but he really can’t find the will to care. He feels less judged in this moment than he has in years. He closes his eyes, letting everything within him settle, and then he finds the strength to roll onto his side, bringing them closer together.

“I want to,” he says, eyes falling down towards Stiles’ crotch, hand trying to creep forward from beneath Stiles’. “Can I?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles dismisses, squeezing his hand.

“I don’t want to leave you hanging,” Peter says. “I’m not that guy.”

“I’m not getting my dick out in a grotto,” Stiles says. “You can just owe me one.”

“Oh, but getting my dick out in a grotto is fine?” Peter asks.

Stiles smirks at him. “I didn’t spill a drop, did I?” he preens. “Besides, you looked like you really needed it.”

“I did,” Peter agrees. “I really did. Thank you.” He finally pulls his hand away, sliding it into his pocket and pulling out his phone. He holds it out to Stiles. “Put your number in here. I’m taking you to dinner.”

“That I can get on board with,” Stiles agrees, sitting up as he puts his details in.

By the time they get to their feet, Peter feels mostly like himself again. Himself on a really good day. They share kisses full of promise before parting ways, Peter clutching his phone in his hand and grinning like an idiot as he walks back to his car.

When he gets to Derek’s apartment, Malia is asleep on the couch, a blanket over her and the cat snuggled by her side. It makes Peter’s heart swell. She’s going to love that puppy so damn much. It will be good for her, give her a companion she can always count on, teach her some responsibility.

“Was she okay?” he asks.

“She was fine,” Derek assures him easily.

“Did she say anything?” Peter asks, unable to keep the hope out of his voice. Derek just offers him an arched eyebrow in response. “Fine, where are the cookies?”

Derek leads the way through to the kitchen where there’s flour and icing and an impressive amount of cookies. Peter picks up an angel, biting off her head.

“Did you get your errand done?” Derek asks, leaning against the counter.

“Mmmhmm,” Peter says around his mouthful.

“Christmas present?” Derek guesses.

Peter shakes his head, swallowing down the cookie. “I took Malia to see Santa earlier. He signed to her. You should have seen her face, Derek. I didn’t get a chance to say thank you, it was busy, but I wanted to let him know how much I appreciated it, and how much it meant to Malia.”

“Did you catch up with him?” Derek asks.

Peter can’t help the smirk that comes over his lips. “I did.”

Derek gives him an incredulous look. “With Santa?”

“Shut up,” Peter says, turning around and checking out Derek’s schedule that’s stuck to the fridge with a magnet Malia made him out of salt dough.

“I’m free Thursday night,” Derek says with resignation. “I can watch Malia.”

Peter turns to face him. “Thank you,” he says earnestly.

Derek nods, putting a hand on his shoulder and giving a squeeze before he goes over to the cupboard to grab some Tupperware. They’ve never really done deep and meaningful but they’re there for each other. Always.

As Derek packs up the cookies, Peter goes back through to the living room, crouching down in front of Malia and stroking back her messy hair. She makes a sleepy noise, eyes flickering open.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Peter says softly. “Time to go home.”

He starts to pull the blanket back, the cat luckily getting out of the way. Peter knows what an immovable object it can be. He lifts Malia into his arms as she floppily clings to him, resting her head on his shoulder as she snuggles into him. He holds her tight, smelling her hair. He’s so utterly in love with her. He hopes that’s enough to make sure she’s okay.

Derek comes through with a box full of Christmas cookies. Peter gives him a pained look, but Derek just holds them out to him. Peter takes them. It’s his daughter’s hard work and sticky fingers. Besides, they did taste really good.

He spends the rest of his week counting down until Thursday. A date. An actual grown-up social event. He’s pretty sure it makes him a horrible person, but he’s looking forward to being Peter for a night instead of just Malia’s dad. He deserves one night, doesn’t he?

He’s on his way to pick Malia up from school when he gets the text from Derek.

_I know you had plans but there’s been an emergency at work, they’ve called me in. I’m sorry._

He grits his teeth, feeling like maybe this is punishment for being so excited at the prospect of a childless night. It’s not that though, he just really wanted to see Stiles. Such a selfish priority.

He has to break the news to Malia first that she won’t be going to Uncle Derek’s tonight. She pouts but of course she doesn’t say anything. Peter feels himself deflate. He feels so lonely and he hates himself for it. His companion, his best friend, his partner in crime, is right there in the back seat. Sometimes she feels like she’s a million miles away.

When they get home and Malia goes to play in her fort in the backyard, Peter texts Stiles.

_Babysitter cancelled, I’ll need to take a rain check. I’m really sorry, I was looking forward to it._

He watches Malia collecting pinecones, hoarding little pieces of nature as though she can tame it, or maybe as though they’ll accept her wildness. Peter accepts it, loves it even. He wonders if he tells her that enough. Probably not. All he does is wish for her to conform. There must be some balance in there somewhere that’s best for her. He wishes he could figure it out.

His phone buzzes in his hand and he looks down to read the text.

_No problem, I can just grab the food and come to you. Send me a cuisine and your address and I’ll work my magic._

Peters stares at his phone. Stiles wants to come here? He turns to look at their very lived in house.

“Malia,” he calls. “We need to tidy up.”

Peter gave up on being a neat freak as soon as Malia came into his life, but he thinks they do a fairly decent job of getting the house in order before Stiles arrives. The dishes are done and Malia’s toys are piled back into her room where they’re supposed to belong and the vacuuming is done for the first time in… Peter doesn’t want to figure it out, the answer will only humiliate him.

He tries not to make too much mess while he makes Malia’s dinner and gives her a bath, but really, this is how they live. It’s not disgusting, just a little disorderly. That’s probably something Stiles should know about them. If he takes it as a red flag, this definitely wasn’t meant to be.

When he hears a knock on the door, Peter suddenly realises that he hasn’t gotten changed. He looks down at the slouchy T-shirt he’s had on all day, feeling woefully underdressed. He wanted to make a good impression. Does Stiles really care about things like that? Peter hopes not, because it’s too late to do anything about it now.

He takes a deep breath and opens the door to see Stiles standing there with a smile on his face and a bag of delicious smelling food in his hand.

“Hey,” he greets cheerily.

“Hi, come in,” Peter responds, stepping aside. “Thank you for doing this, I’m so sorry, this is not an ideal first date.”

“I’m pretty lowkey, it’s fine,” Stiles assures him. “How’s Malia?”

“She’s good,” Peter says, leading him into the house. “She’s been fed and bathed and—” he catches sight of her out of the patio doors “— is back in the yard.” He pulls open the door. “Malia, it is inside time. You better be wearing shoes.”

Malia stands up in her little fort, revealing her bare feet, looking sheepish as she walks across the lawn, her light up Christmas sign clutched in her arms. Peter rolls his eyes, picking her up when she gets close enough and bringing her inside, placing her on the couch with her legs outstretched so that her muddy feet don’t touch anything.

“I don’t know why I bother cleaning you if you’re just going to go roll around in the mud,” Peter says, straightening.

 _I wasn’t rolling,_ Malia signs at him.

Peter gives her an unimpressed look, pointing a finger at her. “Don’t move.”

He goes through to the kitchen, getting a wet cloth and bringing it back through. He kneels down in front of her to clean the dirt off her feet as Stiles looks around at the huge Christmas tree decorated with mismatched ornaments and the lights strung up around the window and the cut-out snowflakes adorning the glass. He looks at the Christmas scene on the mantelpiece and the light-up sign in Malia’s arms.

“You guys really love Christmas, huh?”

“One of us,” Peter says, passing the soiled cloth to Malia. “Go put this in the sink, please.”

Malia doesn’t argue. That’s a good sign. Peter stands up, turning to Stiles.

“I’m so sorry about this.”

“Stop apologising, it’s fine,” Stiles insists. “I like her, she’s spirited.”

“She’s certainly that,” Peter agrees. “She’s going to bed soon, okay?”

Malia comes back through to the room, looking cautiously between Peter and Stiles.

“Malia, this is my friend,” Peter tells her, unable to keep the edge of hope out of his voice. He needs her to not make a scene right now.

“Hey,” Stiles greets, putting down the bag of food on the coffee table and crouching down so that he’s at her level. “I’m Stiles. It’s nice to meet you.”

Malia takes a few steps closer, looking at him with narrowed eyes. Peter holds his breath.

 _You’re not Santa,_ she signs.

Peter wants to give in and fall to the floor. Of course she’d figure it out. She’s always been perceptive and those eyes are unmistakable.

“No, I’m not,” Stiles says. “But this is a really busy time of year and he can’t be everywhere so he has to send some friends out to help him. He knew that you were a very special little girl though and so he made sure he sent me because I know how to understand you. That’s why he asked me to be there the other day. I passed on all of your messages, I promise.”

Malia considers him for a moment. _You’re friends with Santa?_

“Of course I am,” Stiles says. “How do you think I got the outfit? He only gives them to people he trusts.”

Malia purses her lips and Peter can practically see the gears turning in her head, deciding whether she’s going to buy it or not. _Fine,_ she finally signs, going over to the bag of food and opening it up, checking out what’s inside.

“You’ve already eaten,” Peter points out.

Malia pulls out a spring roll and looks at Stiles. _Duck?_

“Yeah, it’s duck,” Stiles agrees with a little smile.

Malia gives a little nod of approval, taking a bite as she climbs back onto the couch, grabbing the TV remote.

Peter picks up the bag. “We can eat in the kitchen. Away from Spongebob Squarepants.”

“I love Spongebob Squarepants,” Stiles says earnestly.

Peter can’t tell if he’s being serious or not, but Malia seems to approve as she looks over at them. “Come on,” Peter says, leading the way. He gets out plates and forks and chopsticks, sitting down opposite Stiles as they dish out the food. “You’re good with her,” he says. “She likes people who take her seriously.”

“She seems like a cool kid,” Stiles says. “And she has excellent taste. I would genuinely go and watch Spongebob with her.”

Peter smiles. “We watch some real old school stuff together. 80s and 90s cartoons. It’s kind of our thing.”

“I want to come and watch cartoons with you guys on a Saturday morning,” Stiles says.

Peter ducks his head down, moving his food around on his plate. He’d like that too, maybe a little too much. He can see the three of them snuggled up on the couch together. That’s not a thought for a first date. Everything he does has to factor in Malia though, and Stiles just feels like the perfect fit for them both.

“So what do you do with yourself?” Stiles asks. “Other than being a superdad.”

Peter snorts a laugh. “Being a dad is all I did for the first four years,” he says. “I was a stay-at-home dad, which I loved, no regrets. Since she started going to school fulltime though I’ve gotten back into working. I used to be on the staff of a national publication but I’m freelance now. I can take on as much or as little as I want that way, work on the stories that interest me and fit it all around Malia. It’s a good balance and I have some pretty good contacts in the industry so selling a story isn’t usually too difficult.”

“Would I have read any of your stuff?” Stiles asks.

“I don’t know,” Peter dismisses. He’s proud of his work but he feels suddenly self-conscious. He’s never wanted to make a good impression this badly for a long time. “I’m only just getting back into it.”

“Well I’d like to read some,” Stiles says. “What are you working on now?”

“I, uh…” Peter begins, hesitating. “Malia likes magic, all kinds of magic, not just the magic of Christmas. There’s legends about fairies in the woods that our house backs onto. That’s half the reason she’s out there so much. Not the woods, I don’t let her go into the woods on her own. But we go there together at the weekend and we look for clues and I’ve been doing some research into the history of the legends. It’s actually turning into quite a fascinating piece about the kinds of people who keep these stories alive. I’m thinking of threading Malia into it, our little explorations, the woods through her eyes.” He waves his chopsticks, embarrassed by the sincerity of such a silly story. “I don’t know, I haven’t pulled it all together yet.”

“That sounds like an amazing read,” Stiles says, his eyes bright. “I want to see it when you’re done.”

Peter feels himself blush. Stiles did just convince Malia he was friends with Santa though so maybe he’s just really good at selling bullshit as enthusiasm.

“It’s nowhere near being a cohesive piece,” Peter says. “I don’t really know what I’m doing with it yet. The process is fun though.”

“I’d love to do something like that,” Stiles says. “Creative outlet, investigative rabbit holes to fall down, no looming deadlines. That’s the dream right there.”

“It’s a good deal,” Peter agrees.

“Also, I want to go walk in the fairy woods,” Stiles says.

Peter smiles. “Malia would love to show you all her favourite spots.”

“I’m sure she’d make an excellent tour guide,” Stiles says.

Peter feels a little glow at his easy acceptance of Malia being a part of the picture. She’s how they met, of course, but Peter hasn’t dated since Malia came into his life and he’s always been so worried about finding that balance. Stiles seems to hit it without even trying.

When they finish eating, they go back through to the living room where Malia is curled up on the couch, a reindeer plushie clutched to her chest. Peter can tell it’s not going to be difficult getting her off to sleep tonight. She does occasionally have good timing.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Peter says. “Time for bed.”

Malia lifts up her arms, asking to be carried. Peter reaches down, scooping her up and balancing her on his hip. She snuggles in close, the reindeer still grasped in one hand.

“Make yourself at home,” Peter tells Stiles, passing him the TV remote. “I won’t be long. Toothbrushing, one story, then I’ll be back.”

Malia wedges the reindeer between their bodies so that her hands are free to sign. _Two stories._

“We’ll see,” Peter says indulgently. He doubts her ability to stay awake that long, no matter how stubborn she is.

“Take your time,” Stiles says easily, settling down on the couch. “Goodnight, Malia.”

 _Goodnight,_ she signs back to him.

It warms Peter’s heart. He carries her upstairs and then lets her sit on his lap as he perches on the edge of the tub while she brushes her teeth. He might spoil her a little. He sings the toothbrushing song for her while she brushes and then places her on her feet to spit and rinse. As soon as the toothbrush is back in the holder, she lifts up her arms to be carried again.

He places her in her bed, tucking her in and smoothing her hair before leaning in to kiss her cheek. “I love you so much.”

 _I love you,_ she signs back at him, but her hands are inexact, like a voice slurred with sleepiness. He loves how he can practically hear her tone of voice from the way she signs. Everything comes through. There’s an emotional intelligence and perception that betrays depths way beyond a stubborn girl who won’t talk. She has this under control. She’s going to be fine.

As predicted, she’s fast asleep before the end of the first story. Peter turns on her bunny nightlight and turns off the lamp, softly closing the door on his way out of the room.

Stiles flicks the TV off as he sees him coming down the stairs, turning to look at him. “She go down okay?”

Peter nods, sitting down beside him. “Out like a light.”

“She’s adorable,” Stiles says. “I feel like she’d probably punch me for saying that.”

“She probably would,” Peter agrees. “Terrible parenting.”

Stiles laughs, ducking his head, but he’s more serious when he meets Peter’s gaze again. “How long has it been just the two of you?”

“Always,” Peter says. “It’s always been the two of us. So I guess there would be an adjustment period if it was ever… more than the two of us.”

“Understandable,” Stiles says.

He licks his lips, Peter’s eyes drawn to the movement, and it feels like they’ve signed a contract of intent. Stiles accepts Peter’s priorities and Peter, somewhere along the way, has decided that Stiles is worth the risk.

He leans in, pressing their mouths together, feeling the give from Stiles instantly. They shift closer on the couch, the kiss deepening, Peter reaching up to touch the side of Stiles’ face. This is already starting to feel familiar, the pressure of Stiles’ lips against his own, the way they part and take Peter’s breath away. It’s been so long since he’s shared these things, but it comes back to him like a flood. Intimacy is so lifegiving.

Their bodies press together at awkward angles on the couch, hands roaming and then grabbing as exploration turns to need. Peter can feel his body reacting, can feel it all going soft-focus even with his eyes closed. He wants Stiles in a way that he hasn’t wanted anything in a long time, his priorities so different now than in his younger years. Malia has been enough for him, she made him whole and gave him purpose. He’s so proud to be her dad. She’s growing up though. His devotion to her isn’t going to give either of their lives the depth that they need. He wants to fall in love again with something he didn’t create. He wants her to see what that looks like. He wants their lives to have balance. Also, selfishly, he wants this because he wants it. He wants it for himself. He wants.

He pulls back, fingers stroking through Stiles’ hair as he looks down at his lips, pink and wet with saliva. He forces himself to look up at Stiles’ eyes so that he doesn’t just dive straight in.

“I want to return the favour,” he says. “From the grotto.”

Stiles smiles, wide and beautiful. “Quid pro quo isn’t sexy.”

“No, but hopefully my lips around your dick are,” Peter responds, feeling empowered.

Stiles’ cheeks go pink, his mouth going into a little o for a second. “Two things that are really sexy are expressing desires and enthusiastic consent.”

Peter nods. “I really want to suck your cock.”

Stiles catches his bottom lip between his teeth before his eyes flick towards the stairs. “Is she a heavy sleeper?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, which is true, but she also never announces her arrival. “My study has a couch. And a door.”

“I love couches and doors,” Stiles says, getting to his feet.

Peter leads the way, gesturing for him to go through. Stiles sits on the couch and then produces a pony plushie from under one of the cushions. No space is sacred in this house. Peter snorts a laugh, grabbing it and tossing it into the living room before closing the door. He turns back to Stiles who’s sat with his legs splayed, the front of his pants stretched over an obvious bulge. Peter wants to do so many things with him. He wants to give and take everything. One step at a time though.

He sits down beside him, kissing him again with more intent, sliding his hand over his thigh and gripping, feeling the soft give beneath his fingers. It makes him groan, hand sliding upwards, Stiles’ legs opening further in invitation, shifting down the couch as though he can meet Peter halfway. When Peter presses his palm against the outline of Stiles’ cock, feeling how hard he is, Stiles groans, trying to drag him closer. Peter smiles into the kiss, squeezing Stiles’ cock through his pants. God, he wants to hear that sound again.

He breaks the kiss, moving back and sinking to his knees. It’s amazing what a powerful position that is. He kneels between Stiles’ feet, reaching up to unfasten his pants, Stiles working with him to shove them out of the way, his cock springing almost comically free. It’s beautiful. Peter’s glad he’s on his knees now because he wants to worship.

He wasn’t really planning on it, he was just going to get the required clothing out of the way and get to work, but now he sits back and pulls Stiles’ sneakers off and then his socks and then his pants and underwear. He looks up at Stiles above him, naked except for his henley shirt that’s so gorgeously fitted, sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms, catching beautifully on his compact muscles. It looks more obscene than if he were actually naked. Peter loves it.

He shifts forward again, eyes dropping down to Stiles’ cock, reaching out and wrapping his hand around it. It’s so hot, jumping in his grips, and he gives it a squeeze, a reassurance and a promise. Stiles reaches out, resting a hand on Peter’s shoulder, thumb stroking onto the bare flesh of his neck. Peter shivers, letting out a shuddering breath, and then he leans forward, licking over the head of Stiles’ cock.

Stiles makes a noise in his throat, his hand feeling heavier on Peter’s shoulder. Peter can taste him, that subtle musk, but he can smell him more, something manly and homey at once. It settles something in Peter, makes his eyes flutter shut as he licks around the head before closing his lips, breathing him in as he starts to move.

It’s instinctive to a certain degree and Peter remembers how this goes but he’s out of practice. He can’t take Stiles very deep and it takes him an embarrassingly long time to realise that he can use his hand to help, so lost in what he’s doing. The feel of a cock on his tongue, heavy and warm and pulsing with life, is something all-consuming and all he wants to do is indulge himself. The more he sucks, the better it gets, Stiles leaking precome and coating his mouth, drowning Peter’s senses. He groans, realising that Stiles is stroking his neck in what feels like a reassuring gesture, and he wonders which one of them this is for now.

He opens his eyes, looking up, and Stiles is sat with flushed cheeks and parted lips and eyes for only him. So they’re probably both enjoying this. He relaxes into it, holding Stiles’ gaze as he swallows around him, feeling like he can feel the precome slipping down his throat, becoming a part of him. It makes him groan again and Stiles sucks in air, his hand moving up to Peter’s cheek. He caresses him there with impossibly soft eyes but then he starts to ease him back. Peter goes, trying to stop the tears from springing to his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m kind of rusty.”

Stiles shakes his head. “You’re incredible,” he says, voice breathy and laced with honesty. “I just wanted to do some other stuff too. With you. Please.”

“Okay,” Peter says dumbly.

Stiles grins at him, holding out his arms. “Come here.”

Peter moves forward, feeling old as he gets off his knees, allowing himself to be pulled to straddle Stiles’ lap. Stiles hitches his hips up, even as he winces at the feel of Peter’s jeans against his hard cock. Peter starts to lean in and then stops himself.

“Is cock to mouth okay?”

“It’s more than okay,” Stiles assures him, dragging him in for a kiss.

Stiles’ hands slide under his shirt as their tongues slide together, Peter’s body surging forward. He grips Stiles’ henley in his hands, tilting his head to kiss him deeper, not wanting to leave a single part of him untouched. He wants to turn him inside out and consume him. Stiles pushes up his shirt to bunch under his arms and Peter breaks the kiss, panting as he helps Stiles pull the shirt over his head. Stiles’ hands run down his front, taking him in with his eyes, and then his hands catch on the waistband of his jeans, working them open.

Peter goes for Stiles’ shirt as soon as he’s naked, pushing the material upwards before he’s even settled back in his lap, greedy and impatient. He just stares at him for a moment, taking it all in, committing it to memory. Hands roam over flesh and then he leans in, leaving open-mouthed kisses across his throat, sucking at the juncture of his shoulder. Stiles groans, arms going to cradle Peter’s back, and then he does some move and Peter finds himself on his back along the couch, Stiles on top of him, between his legs, and he feels like maybe he’s in heaven. Strong and capable is what does it for Peter. Strong and capable and reliable. He’s pretty sure Stiles is a triple threat.

Everything is just sensation and pleasure, lips meeting and falling apart, kisses landing on necks and shoulders and chests as they move together. There’s slick from sweat and precome, cocks trapped between their stomachs, friction building between them until Peter feels like he’s out of his mind. He wraps his legs around Stiles’ back, rides his hips upwards, so utterly overwhelmed with sensation and emotion. He hasn’t connected with anyone like this for so long, this primal flesh against flesh that speaks to some animal instinct too long dormant. It’s not seedy though, it’s not dirty. It’s beautiful.

He comes with that thought echoing in his head, gripping Stiles with his arms and his legs like he never intends to let go. He kind of wishes he didn’t have to. Stiles keeps moving against him, making him whimper, and when he comes across Peter’s stomach, the most beautiful noise caught in his throat, Peter feels like he peaks all over again. His body is singing and so fulfilled and he never wants to come down.

He’s not sure how long they lie there. He belatedly drags the blanket off the back of the couch, covering them up, and then he just closes his eyes and breathes and lets his fingertips trace patterns over Stiles’ flesh. He feels so warm and happy and loved.

Stiles starts to nuzzle at his neck, lips dragging against his flesh, and Peter reluctantly flutters his eyes open with a sleepy noise. Stiles smiles at him softly, so much affection in his eyes, and then they stay there a while longer, kissing and touching and indulging. It’s the opposite of the shame he thought he might feel. He wants so many more moments like this in his life. He’s pretty sure they’re on the same page.

They finally move and Peter’s all too aware that he has to get up for the school run tomorrow morning. This is not how Malia’s going to find him when she wonders why her breakfast isn’t ready. They get cleaned up and get dressed, their hands finding each other as Peter walks Stiles to the door, fingers twining together.

“So, that was an amazing first date,” Stiles says.

“It really was,” Peter agrees, leaning in for a kiss. It’s soft and sweet and yet still so full of promise.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, maybe,” Stiles says. “Or call me when it’s a good time. Maybe after bed time.”

Peter nods. “I’ll do that.” Balance. He feels like Stiles will complement them perfectly.

He gives Stiles one more kiss before letting him out, leaning his head against the closed door for a moment to catch his breath, and maybe revel in it. His whole body feels giddy and sated and wonderful. He turns around, nearly jumping out of his skin when he sees Malia standing silently behind him, that plushie reindeer still in her hand.

“I swear to god, I’m going to put a bell on you,” he says, giving her a look.

“I like Not-Santa,” she says.

Peter freezes, reminding himself not to look surprised. Malia speaking should be seen as a normal thing, no matter how infrequent it is. Making a big deal out of it is only going to encourage her to retreat further. He’s pretty sure his face is still betraying what a huge fucking deal this is though.

“Yeah, I like Not-Santa too,” he says, moving past her, because if he’s not looking at her than he can’t see her sign, she has to keep talking. It never works. Malia catches his wrist and he turns to face her.

 _Is he coming back?_ she signs.

“Yeah,” Peter agrees. “Actually, he wants you to show him where the fairies live in the woods.”

Malia’s eyes light up, a grin coming over her face. _Really?_

“Really,” Peter agrees. “And it’s a school night, you’re supposed to be in bed. Come on.”

Malia pouts but she stomps dramatically back up the stairs, Peter trailing after her. He gets her back into bed, tucking her in and smoothing back her hair. This little girl is utter perfection.

“Hey, so, how long were you stood there?” he asks, trying and failing to keep his voice casual.

 _I saw you kissing Not-Santa,_ she signs.

Peter smiles despite himself. “His name is Stiles.”

She frowns so Peter carefully signs out the letters to her so she can figure out a sign for him. She repeats them to herself and then gives a serious little nod. _Okay._

Peter nods and then fusses with her blanket for a second. “Do you mind that I kissed Stiles?”

 _I like Stiles,_ she repeats, with signs instead of words this time. Peter is more than willing to take it. _I’ll show him where the fairies live._

“That would mean a lot to him,” Peter says. “And to me.” He leans forward, kissing her on the forehead. “Now please go to sleep. It’s late.”

She gives a little huff but snuggles down, closing her eyes.

Peter watches her for a moment, his contentedness only growing. He gets gently to his feet, going out onto the landing and closing the door behind himself. He makes his way to his own bedroom, changing into his pyjamas and climbing into bed. The blankets are heavy and soothing on his exhausted body and he hums in utter satisfaction, drifting off into a blissful sleep.


End file.
